Will You Call My Name?
by fagur fiskur
Summary: He doesn't know how old he is. His legal documents claim he's thirty-eight, but the number feels wrong. Either way, he is an adult, with no family and no friends. Whoever he was before, Castiel cannot imagine he was a good man. Dean/Castiel


**A/N:** 30 (more) cheesy tropes: #12 Memory loss

Beta'd version will be up later. I know that at this point, Vonnegut references are a cliché in this fandom, but I just finished _Mother Night_ and I had a lot of feelings about it. Though tbh I kind of tailored its themes to fit this fic.

Title is taken from Don't You (Forget About Me) by Simple Minds because I am a massive dork, clearly.

* * *

**Will You Call My Name?**

* * *

Castiel often wonders what kind of a man he was before.

When he first woke up in the hospital, seven months ago, he was alone. The staff informed him that he had no emergency contact, no next of kin. He had been found unconscious on the curb in front of a Gas-N-Sip.

He doesn't know how old he is. His legal documents claim he's thirty-eight, but the number feels wrong. Either way, he is an adult, with no family and no friends. Whoever he was before, Castiel cannot imagine he was a good man.

He likes to think he is now. He's doing his best to be good, anyway. He keeps a good relationship with his neighbors and coworkers, even if he's not particularly close with any of them. He does volunteer work when he has the time, and he regularly gives to charity. He may not have family or friends, but one thing he has plenty of is money. According to the bank, he inherited it from his parents.

If Castiel wanted to, he could look them up. They may not be alive, but there's a good possibility that their names could lead him to other relatives. He probably should have already, but he gets a nagging feeling whenever he thinks of his past. Whatever he did or was, he's got a strong sense that it's better left forgotten.

In a way, he's lucky. How many people truly get a chance at a fresh start?

* * *

"Hot dude, three o'clock, totally checking you out."

Castiel looks up from the register. Joan is leaning against the counter, grinning at him. Her grin drops when Castiel checks his watch.

"To your right," she whispers.

"Why didn't you say that?" Castiel asks, annoyed. He doesn't understand why people keep expecting him to understand all these oblique phrases.

"I was trying to be sneaky." Joan rolls her eyes. "Just, look at the hot dude, will you? But don't be obvious about it."

Castiel obeys, because he knows Joan will pester him until he does. He turns his head slightly to the right and risks a quick glance. At least, it's meant to be quick, but as soon as he catches a glimpse of the man, his heart stops. There is something about him that seems almost... familiar.

The man looks up and when he catches Castiel staring, he hurriedly puts down the magazine he's been holding and disappears between the shelves.

"You scared him off," Joan complains. "Why did you… are you okay?"

Castiel draws a shaky breath, suddenly aware of how he must look. "I'm fine. I just-" he pauses, trying to find the right words to describe his feelings. When he fails, he says uncertainly, "I think I might have met that man before."

Joan screws up her nose. "You _think_?"

"_Before_, before," Castiel clarifies, and that's enough for Joan to understand. Castiel has made no secret of his condition and his coworkers all know. His boss, Katheryn, has often joked that maybe he has an evil twin or a wife in a coma somewhere.

"You remembered something?"

Castiel shakes his head slowly. "Not exactly. It was more a... feeling. Like a strong sense of déja vu."

That still doesn't explain it adequately, but Castiel has no other words for it.

"So go talk to him," Joan says excitedly. "Maybe he knows you."

As reluctant as Castiel is to go exploring his unknown past, there is something about the stranger that makes Castiel want to approach him. Then again, that might just be because the man is uncommonly attractive.

"I can watch the register," Joan adds, mistaking Castiel's contemplation for reluctance.

Castiel nods. "Thank you."

He finds the stranger in the American Fiction section, staring intently at the book in his hands. Castiel cranes his head to see the title – _Mother Night_.

"Are you a fan of Vonnegut?" he asks. It's not what he meant to say, but it's as good an opening as any.

The stranger's head snaps up and he startles, even though he could not have missed Castiel arriving. "I, uh… I guess?" He clears his throat. "I mean, I've read a couple of his books. Not this one, though."

"It's good," Castiel says. "It raises some interesting questions."

"Yeah?" The stranger is smirking, and Castiel isn't sure, but he thinks he might be flirting. He can't say he dislikes the thought. "Like what?"

"Like whether the consequences of our actions are more important than the intent behind them."

"And what does Vonnegut decide is more important?"

Castiel tilts his head. "It's debatable. One interpretation that many people ascribe to is that the consequences are all that matters."

It was clearly the wrong thing to say, because the stranger's smirk slips away and his expression becomes unreadable. Castiel decides to get to his real question, before he loses the other man completely.

"Have we met before?"

The stranger ducks his head and Castiel catches a flash of something that might be shock, or possibly fear. But when he raises his head, he's smirking again. "Is that a line?"

"A line?" Castiel asks, puzzled.

The stranger shakes his head. "Never mind. No, I don't think we've met."

"What's your name?"

"Dean."

Castiel nods, a little disappointed. He expected the name to call out some emotion in him – maybe a flash of recognition – but he felt nothing.

"You know, normally when someone tells you their name, you give them one back."

"My name is Castiel."

If Dean has heard this name before, he pretends not to recognize it. Maybe that feeling from before really _was_ a strong case of déja vu. But either way, Castiel isn't ready to let Dean go just yet. Even if he's telling the truth and they really have never met, Dean is still attractive. And unless Castiel is greatly misinterpreting the situation, the attraction goes both ways.

"My shift is over in ten minutes," he tells Dean, which isn't technically true, but he knows Joan won't begrudge him if he slips out a little early. "Would you like to grab a cup of coffee?"

"Like a date?" Dean asks, clearly bewildered.

"If you'd like."

Dean looks him over, as if truly seeing him for the first time, and Castiel fidgets uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He's about to retract the offer, when Dean says, "Uh, sure. If that's what you want."

"Would I be asking if it wasn't?" Castiel asks.

It's a genuine question – social cues are not his strong suit – but Dean chuckles. "I guess not."

"Then it's a date?"

"Yeah." Dean's smirk softens into a smile, which causes a strange pang in Castiel's chest. "It's a date."

* * *

When Castiel explains the situation to Joan, she insists that he leave immediately ("I can take care of the shop myself! Don't make your date wait."). Five minutes later, they're sitting down in a nearby coffee house.

They do the normal first date dance. Castiel is well acquainted with it at this point; he's been set up on plenty of dates by the well-meaning Mrs. Tate next door. Even though he's yet to make it to a second date, this much he's at least familiar with.

He tells Dean about his work and his life, making no reference to the fact that he can only remember the past seven months. Dean tells him a few scattered stories in turn, most of them involving his brother and a friend he refuses to name, but it feels like he's holding back. Like he's hiding something.

Somehow, two hours pass. They leave only when Dean's growling stomach catches Castiel's attention, and then they only go as far as the diner across the street. They chow down on sweaty burgers and Dean orders a slice of apple pie for desert. Castiel doesn't have any, content with watching Dean eat his pie with a blissful expression on his face.

By the time they leave the diner, it's dark out. They walk down the street, heading in no particular direction. Every so often their hands brush.

"It's getting late," Dean eventually says. "I should be-"

Castiel cuts him off with a kiss, too afraid that the next word is going to be _'leaving'_. He doesn't want Dean to leave. He feels frightfully attached to him, and that more than anything convinces him that this isn't the first time they've met. Dean's pull on him is too strong to be anything new.

He pulls away. "My place is only a few blocks away."

"We shouldn't," Dean says.

Castiel frowns. He puts a hand on Dean's chest, causing Dean to draw a sharp, shocked breath. His heart is pounding. "I don't care."

Dean looks like he might protest again, so Castiel silences any potential arguments with another kiss. He catches Dean's lower lip between his teeth and bites softly, drawing a groan from Dean that sounds almost pained. Beneath his fingertips, Castiel can feel his heart speeding up.

"You're going to regret it," Dean warns, but he doesn't back away.

"I won't," Castiel promises.

* * *

They stumble into Castiel's apartment locked at the lips, knocking against the doorframe on their way in. Dean backs him into the living room, nipping softly at his neck, and they stumble onto the couch.

Castiel feels dizzy with need, breathless from it, but he still has the presence of mind to warn Dean, "I haven't – if I've had sex before, I don't remember."

"Doesn't matter," Dean says, moving to straddle Castiel. "I'll take care of you, okay?"

Then his lips are on Castiel's neck again and he's _biting_, right below his jaw, and the sting of it shoots straight down Castiel's spine. "_Yes_."

* * *

When it's all over and they're somehow on the floor, naked and legs tangled together, Dean confesses:

"I lied."

His nose is buried in the crook of Castiel's neck and the words come out muffled, but Castiel still hears and understands. "I suspected as much."

Dean makes an unhappy noise. "You should be throwing me out on my ass."

"Probably, yes," Castiel says. "Did you know I was here?"

"Yeah." Castiel can't see Dean's face, but he knows without looking that his expression is guilty. "I thought about coming sooner, but I didn't want to come and stir up your whole life without a reason."

Thousands of questions whirl around in Castiel's mind at that confession, all demanding answers. He doesn't know what to focus on: was Dean the one who left him on that curb? Why wouldn't he want to stay in contact with Castiel? What had gone on between them in the past that Dean could look at him like he was at once his salvation and his damnation?

"Why did you come now?" he finally settles on. The rest of it is just backstory, and despite his recent reintroduction to Dean, Castiel still isn't sure he wants anything to do with his own past.

After a brief hesitation, Dean sits up and reaches for his jeans. Out of his pocket he pulls a small box. He goes to hand it to Castiel, who recoils. Even without touching it, he can feel something is off about this box. His instincts are crying out for him to grab it, to get whatever is inside, but his rational mind rebels at the thought.

"This could get you your memories back," Dean explains, confirming what Castiel already suspects it. "If you want them."

If he wants them.

It shouldn't be a difficult choice. The nagging feeling, that his past is better left in the past, is still there. So long as he remains ignorant, his slate will remain clean. He will still have a chance at that fresh start.

But he may not have a chance at Dean.

Then again, he doesn't need to jump into this blind. "Was I a good man?"

"Yes," Dean says, without hesitating. "The best I've known."

"The best," Castiel echoes, disbelieving. "By what standards?"

Dean's brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"In _Mother Night_," Castiel says, "Vonnegut, arguably, defines morality not by intent but by consequence. By that definition, was I a good man?"

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it again, struck dumb. He doesn't have an honest answer, Castiel realizes morosely, not one he wants to share. His silence is as much an answer as any.

"Then I think I'm better off as I am."

Dean's jaw clenches but he doesn't argue, even though Castiel can tell he's dying to.

"Are you going to leave now?"

"No." Dean puts the box on the floor, letting go of it slowly, as it pains him. Then he wraps his arms around Castiel's shoulders, pulling him closer. "No strings attached. You want me, I'm there."

Castiel closes his eyes, releasing a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding, and lets himself melt against Dean. Even like this, he's still acutely aware of the box on the floor, but he pushes it to the very back of his mind.

Everything is as it should be.


End file.
